One fine summer I decided to abandon my restless wanderings around this detritus-ridden metropolis and bum a ride on various modes of transport headed for the continent. Forty-eight hours later I was tossed at the side of a layby in Southern Spain like a worn-out sex doll. Summoning my last reserves of energy, I limped into a small conurbation near Valencia. I forget its name now, but I have not forgotten the Bacchanalian scenes that greeted my optical nerves as I arrived. It appeared that there was to be a festival that day, and hordes of people were crowding into the centre of the town. I followed, convinced that this could only mean free food and drink and possible a woman of the loose variety. Imagine my delight when I discovered countless dreg-laden plastic cups littering the streets.

I was just savouring my 100th swig of wash-back when I heard a loud roar erupt. Heads swivelled, eyes lit up and no doubt organs were aroused. It appeared that a large truck was approaching, containing a mound of red vegetable matter. Several human beings of both sexes appeared to be distributing said foodstuff liberally without requesting payment. It was only when the vehicle drove past that I realised the items being dished out were tomatoes. I gleefully gathered up as many as my oversize hands allowed. Yet such was my confusion at receiving this unexpected windfall that I spent countless seconds musing on the true nature of the tomato - fruit or vegetable?

Erring on the side of fruit, I decided that I should gobble up my loot greedily before it was snatched away by one of the hundreds of marauding omnivores among the crowd.

This was of course a fatal mistake. No sooner had the last tomato slithered down my gullet than I realised nobody else was eating. Instead they were flinging their cargo at each other zealously, with no thought for the food wastage involved. It appeared that this was the true nature of the festival. I immediately determined to join in with gusto.

Alas, just as I wound back my awesome throwing arm - developed through years of onanism and glass tilting - when I experienced the unpleasant sensation of a missile slamming directly into my eyeball. I can assure you it felt more like a depleted uranium shell than a tomato. Mortally wounded, I slumped down to the street, which was by now a foot deep in crushed organic matter.

Unable to see, I was forced to crawl through the maze of legs and the sea of red mush back the way I had come. Ah, if only Moses were here, I thought. Half an hour later, as if a walking Bloody Mary, I finally surged into daylight and dry land. As I staggered away, vowing never to eat another tomato again, I realised I resembled something like the lone survivor of a US high school massacre.

Sadly I was quite unable to find any TV camera crews to give a first-hand account of my horrific ordeal.